


You Need to be Fulfilled

by nolifeantics



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John is Sherlock's whole world, M/M, love and sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-10 18:05:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10443864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nolifeantics/pseuds/nolifeantics
Summary: I wrote this in a rush so I expect I'll be editing it.  My beta is no longer in this fandom so all mistakes and errors are mine.





	

John’s shoulders are stiff as he silently sits hunched over the table, a hand scrubbing his face. He’s in a grumpy, gnarly mood today and Sherlock pauses midway through his deduction to see if John’s even listening to him.

“John, did you hear me? The train conductor couldn’t be at fault. It was the engineer!”

Sherlock’s bright hopeful smile falters when John’s brings his hand away, revealing the broad contours of John’s handsome face not grinning back in encouragement or amazement but the deep lines furrowing further.

John brings his hand back down to the table, clenching a fist seemingly out of habit before laying it flat next to the other one. The sleeves of his dark lumberjack shirt are rolled up and Sherlock’s eyelashes flutter a little as he tries not to notice the thick corded muscles swell and flex at the motion, how the veins stick out. Turning away he futilely attempts to hide his blush, remembering all too well what that big strong fist is capable of.

John continues to sit motionless, heavy brows knit to form a single line, dark blue eyes searing Sherlock’s flesh with what Sherlock can only read as anger.

Oh. John’s angry.

_Did I say something wrong? What did I say? What did I do?_

The tension would need a knife to cut through it. But why? John’s mad, nothing new there. Why should it cause his stomach to twist in knots this time?

It's early enough, Sherlock can probably wriggle out of most of the savage berating  - over time he's grown adept at knowing exactly what bounds he can and cannot cross before soliciting an appropriate slap or punch. This look...there's something else to it, something harder, he can’t pinpoint but nevertheless an involuntary blush proceeds to cover his pale face.

"You don't even realize how bad your need for praise is, do you? What a lovely pink blush your pretty little face takes _every time._ Quite remarkable really.  I think I could do anything to you and so long as I tell you how amazing you are, you'd take it."

He glances away before quickly glancing back. The truth is far worse. John can do anything to him and he'd take it regardless. John is his entire world.

_Mary. It must be Mary._

While her ghost doesn’t haunt John as often Sherlock worries the silver haired man still occasionally hears her voice. Not that Sherlock can blame him. He always has other people’s voices in his head, yelling at him, criticizing him, calling him names, but usually those are John himself.

Should he offer John reassurance? Advice? He would make an attempt but going by previous mentions of her name he knows John would only growl at him.

Sherlock is still lost his mind trying to figure out how to handle his best friend when John suddenly sits back, shoulders broad and squared and Sherlock nearly jumps. John’s stare, intense, dark, more intense than any Sherlock recognizes before, makes his heart rate pick up.

A prickle in the back of his head tells him, warns him, this is danger. The signs are here. He knows John well enough to sense a deep feral unease lying in wait. He should pull away from John this very minute. Get up and walk around the room at least. He draws a deep breath instead and as per usual for the brunette decides to instead ignore the very acute danger he’s in.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice is deeper, smoother than it had been before, not the danger-low Sherlock expected. It’s almost quiet. Unsure what it means, Sherlock bites his lips, swallows quickly.

John lifts his chin and peers directly at Sherlock. “You told me to tell you if there was anything you could do for me.” Sherlock, eyes wide, head already nodding  - _yes!_ Sherlock’s vow to do anything to help John and Mary was really for John. Only John. Whatever it is he’ll do, because he’ll do anything for John. _Has_ done anything for him. There’s no question.

“As you know, since Mary died it’s been rough on me. Not just with the drinking and the PTSD but the guilt and the...” He pauses to let his eyes rake over Sherlock’s mouth, swollen and with slight teeth-indentations, and licks his own. “Temptation.”

“Temptation?” Sherlock asks, confusion smoothing his expression. “You mean guilt for being tempted by my sister, the girl on the bus?”

“No, I mean temptation before and after your sister, before and after Mary.”

This time the helpless feeling of not understanding grows, making Sherlock crinkle his nose.

“Stop that.” Growl, gravel-over stone, low, deep, it catches Sherlock off-guard for a moment, John’s return to a furious demeanor, more potent with the delay. Sherlock flinches, quickly recovers.

Deep breath. Pulls together a deduction.

“Sex. You mean sex.”

“I do.”

Sherlock glows at getting it right and happily continues. “You’ve always expressed an incredibly high sex-drive. When you don’t get enough sex your leg bothers you on psychosomatic level. You practically need sex to thrive, yet you haven’t dated or pulled strangers since Mary’s death. Why?”

“It could be tied to guilt of having philandering desires during your marriage but given your  incredibly high-sex drive, it’s unlikely that itself would keep you from partaking for so long since technically you wouldn’t be cheating any more. So it must be attributed to a ‘temptation’ as you put it. There’s someone highly specific you want then.”

John’s cobalt blue eyes darker further, glitter under his heavy hooded eyes. The silver head nods. “Good. Yeah, that’s good, Sherlock. Keep going. You’re a clever boy, go on and figure it out what I want.”  

Sherlock beams and blushes, a soft pink pulling to his pale face, embarrassed how words of praise do wondrous things to him and his brain spins to keep impressing John who’s staring at his mouth, licking his lips like a beast ready to pounce Sherlock at any moment.

_I wonder what it would it feel like that have that mouth on my mine, to have it on my body, that thick tongue in me._

Sherlock’s heart knocks against his ribs.

He speaks in a rush of thought and words. “Guilt implies wanting someone you shouldn’t, someone who’s taken already. Temptation would be derived only if you continually see or run into this person.”

“Sarah.” He exclaims. “She's married now. I know you ran into her a week ago.”

John gives a small head shakes, eyes still firmly locked onto Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s lips to be precise. “Not Sarah.”

Sherlock pouts. It was a _brilliant_ deduction.

“I said quit doing that.” Another warning growl.

“Doing what?” Sherlock hiffs.

“Looking for all the world like a tiny child.”

Sherlock tips his chin and nose in the air when he says, confused and petulant, “I’m not a child. ”

“Then quit acting like a overdramatic child and figure out who it is I want to fuck.” John is fuming. Sherlock's surprised there isn't visible air blowing from his flaring nostrils.

Sherlock blinks rapidly four or five times. “John, language. I’ll figure it out,” he says pulling a distasteful face. Thinking quickly, he adds, “Ah! I have it. A man. Someone who isn’t open about his sexuality.”

A bitter taste floods Sherlock’s  mouth the second those words exit them. To think that there is some insane, lucky asshole out there who gets to have gorgeous John Watson’s affections and doesn’t crawl on his knees to keep them.

Sherlock battles a wave of dizziness and what might be more nausea. He’s always tried not to be jealous of John’s string of lovers.

“Don’t be such a Puritan, Sherlock” is all John would say the next morning after Sherlock’s off-hand jokes about the notches above John’s bed. But night after night  it was Sherlock who had to listen to that same headboard slam into the wall again and again from the agonizingly lonely darkness of his room below.

What helped however was how fleeting they all lasted. None seemed to draw John’s attention for more than a convenient fuck. John’s inability to stay monogamous for more than a few weeks was, for Sherlock, strangely all he had at times.

Now he has to prepare himself for something far worse than Mary, someone who John desires even more than his wife, and this person also happens to be a man.

He clears his throat and continues. “Yet, you were able to pull Sholto, a military man with strong abiding inhibitions about homosexuality. So, this one must be even more repressed.”

“He’s definitely that. But not about being gay. He’s really rather open about preferring men. Thing is, he considers himself off-limits which is why wanting him is such a temptation.”

“Off-limits? Out of fear or arrogance?”

“Both I assume. He is a virgin but he’s definitely not asexual whatever false front he pretends with. Quite the opposite actually. Growing up, there’s an expression a few university mates of mine had for girls and boys like that, little tarts running around pretending to be untouchable, pretending to be better than the rest of us when they couldn’t stop staring at men and cocks if they wanted: _gagging for it.”_

Sherlock ducks his head, flushing for a second. He knew John’s use of colorful language would spill into the bedroom. John's gaze has reached a new level of intensity, Sherlock feeling as though he's being stripped and beaten to a pulp, rooted to the spot and left shivering by those furious eyes.

“He considers himself off-limits which is why wanting has been such a temptation. But he’s not though. I’m slow but I got there eventually.”

Sherlock blushes so hard it makes John comment.

"You can stop blushing. Your little game of acting the innocent angel. You should have been more careful, Sherlock." His dark voice sounding like a threat. "You aren't even aware of certain things about yourself."

"Like what?"

 

“Because that’s what Rosie does and I very much don’t want to associate Rosie with what I want from you.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Everything,” John snarls.

There’s a long moment of intense silence as everything falls into place, after which Sherlock can’t speak, can’t breathe, can’t even think.

When he does dare to look at John again the man’s eyes have gone pure coal black, glittered with something akin to fury: something burning, dark, dangerous. God, Sherlock could drown in those depths and be happy doing it. His own eyes like saucers, panic-wide, excitement and nerves striking every part of him. He bites his bottom lips and thinks, _Don’t do this. Don’t do this just to impress the man._

But of course it’s a hopeless, stupid thought, he admonishes himself immediately. John’s cologne and underneath it, the man’s own spicy natural musk curl around Sherlock’s senses like the most potent of drugs. It would be easier, and prefered, to simply stop breathing rather than disappoint John, to not do whatever it takes to impress the older man.  

“Y-you mean y-you...” Sherlock stutters, his throat trying to close. He tries to catch himself before his lisp makes an unfortunate reappearance. “I’m who you want? You want me?”

John’s strong jaw flexes but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to really, trusts Sherlock to trust his own deduction.

But if that's true, if it's him John does want, has wanted, then why didn't he say anything before? Why now?

Oh God, what if John knows the truth?

Waves of fear and danger come crashing around him. He needs to leave, get up and flee the room before he makes his ultimate mistake, before he reveals his very soul to this man who owns it. He's unable to move.

When Sherlock speaks he can barely manage even a whisper.  “Yes.”

John is standing before Sherlock’s gets out the full ‘s’ sound. He stomps over toward Sherlock with such a malice in his eyes Sherlock thinks he's going to hit him. A large strong hand wraps around Sherlock’s thin arm - Christ but that hand could do so many things to him - and directs him to his room, tossing him inside so that he flails onto his bed, bouncing on the mattress a few times before managing to right himself. He stands, shivers at the soldier’s causal strength.

“Get your drugs. I know you've been saving that little vial Irene gave me to give to you when you were knocked out. Take it.”

“What will it do?” He asks, moving immediately to his hiding place in his closet. He knows Irene and John conversed while he was unconscious, he knows too this extra vile was in his normal stash soon after and deduced John put it there on Irene’s suggestions. He's breathless now, breathless with John’s force, breathless to comply with John’s wanting of him, his nerves zinging with fear, anticipation, and love.

He's already unzipping out the brown bag with his precious numbing intoxications. He loves John so much, his fingers are trembling with it. John could have anyone, has had thousands he’s sure, that he now wants Sherlock and has wanted him this long --

He will take it, adrenaline and newness junkie that he is, whatever it does, if it kills him so be it. He’d gladly die for John.

“Always so eager to please me. It’ll help open you up, help with the pain. I don’t want to hurt you-”

Eyes go blacker.

“-Much.”

Right then he looks over to see John leaning against the doorframe, and then what was the normal huge bulge of John’s soft cock is now an enormous hardness testing the tensile strength of his dark blue jeans as it snakes down the length of one pants leg. Even through the thick jean material Sherlock can make out veins.

Sherlock gasps, a sudden skittishness overtaking his mind, and his fingers shake with more than just nerves and love. But his resolve set he presses the needle to the vial, drawing out the pale fluid.

John smirks and moves his hands to his crotch. He unzips his blue jeans, slowly pulling his cock out from a pair of black boxers. It’s already dark and ruddy, massive and still growing. It juts out aggressive, a weapon, from the bushy mass of brown pubic hairs at the base. Sherlock can smell him so strongly now. John's dark spice musk is even more potent with his cock exposed. The manly scent nearly overwhelming, better than the drugs.

Sherlock bites his lip, second thoughts, a genuine fear of sex suddenly taking over. But it’s too late, the needle is plunging through his skin. He slowly presses the plunger.

John saunters over to Sherlock, with a slow sexually charged walk, movements powerful  and easy closer. The predatory about to stake claim on a his young prey.

He covers Sherlock’s hand with his warm broad palm and helps, makes sure it goes all the way down. A second ticks by once it’s through. Sherlock can almost feel the drugs in his system. A new high he’s never experienced.

John watches him for a moment before he attacks.  

“Ah! John-” Sherlock’s outcry strangles in a gasp as two powerful hands grab at his chest and in a microsecond his his silky posh shirt is torn from his body, as seemingly easy as ripping apart wet paper.

Naked, vulnerable, Sherlock shivers, pants softly, knees trembling, waiting. John's dark eyes glitter with lust stare at Sherlock like a wolf to a lamb. A slow tug of one corner of his thin lips is all the warning Sherlock gets before wide, calloused fingers glide firmly, possessive, across his chest, targeting his nipples, making every inch of his soft, smooth skin tingle with the rough contrast. His skin progressively grows more sensitive, a fear settling in that the drugs are helping the process along. Soon the tiny  peony buds, always so sensitive, hardened -red, tight.

“Lovely. Just lovely. You’re so responsive. I’m going to give you what you’ve been missing. I’m going to finally fulfill you,” John growls. Sherlock writhes under his devastating hands, jolt upon jolt of singing pleasure with every caress, rough-gentle-rough.

When those strong hands leave his body Sherlock trembles, the loss of John’s heated touch affecting him more that just physically.

Suddenly the few inches of space between the two men disappear, and Sherlock finds that broad hand wrapping around his neck and being kissed with such brutal force his plump lips sting. John tyrannizing his mouth, stealing his breath.

It’s so much. Too much. Sherlock can’t pull away either. Not that he minds.

John has stolen his heart. He might as well steal his last breath, too. He would never say no to him. Sherlock would give him everything. Body. Mind. Soul.

Everything

Sherlock feels himself surrender so easily for this man. It’s frightening. Let John hurt him, bruise him, break him, _fill him._

John’s ministrations leave his flesh becoming aroused. He goes to John’s lumberjack shirt and lifts it so he can finally touch the heated skin and coarse chest hair.

John’s own hands have left Sherlock’s neck and reach for his expensive tailor made trousers and _rips_ off the clasp. Sherlock lets slip a hysterical giggle at John’s desire for him. He’s giddy , joyous like never before in his lonely life, finally able to show John his desperate love for him.

When John’s shirt is off, Sherlock finds himself suddenly hoisted into the air, gasping shocked ‘ah-ah’ sounds. His hands scramble onto John’s thick shoulder clutching for support. And then his pants are being roughly yanked down over the narrow hips, only finding resistance across pert globes of his ass.

The next thing Sherlock’s being lowered on his back on the floor, not the bed he thinks. As if John were too hungry to make it there, and feeling the large heavy weight of John’s gorgeous body quickly following.

The silver haired doctor hovers above his naked detective to drink in the sight, the curly haired younger splayed out beneath him, lips and eyes wet and wide open.

He presses Sherlock down and like this, larger strong arms and body caging sherlock’s own lithe little frame, John’s knees moving forward until they’re on either side of slender pale thighs, boxing Sherlock in, and it hits him, how truly weak and vulnerable he is like this: on his back, without the advantage of his long legs - Bambi legs as John jokingly calls them. John’s bigger, broader frame covering him except for his longer neck letting his curly head stick out further. It’s wonderful as it is frightening. As he recalls too all the times John revealed his greater strength, it puts the disturbingly erotic thought in his head of how John could literally do whatever he wanted to Sherlock and he could do nothing to stop him.

John removes his pants slowly, but right when he pushes them down Sherlock throws back his head on a high pitched keen, John having latched his mouth onto his long thin neck. A broad calloused, incredibly strong hand comes up to cup the side of Sherlock’s face, and gentle, lovingly thumb and stroke Sherlock’s smooth skin.

John lowers his head and licks against the cupid’s bow demanding access. It’s such a soft gentle move and a stark contrast to the sensual overload of everything Sherlock’s previously experienced. The kiss deepens and John’s surprisingly broad tongue explores every inch of Sherlock’s mouth, tasting the tea and honey of Sherlock’s breakfast and lunch for the day. Meanwhile Sherlock’s hands curiously, happily, rove and map out the broad planes and thick muscles of John’s shoulders, exploring his back and broad arse and thick furry thighs, everywhere he can reach.

Suddenly it becomes very vital that Sherlock tell him something. Something important. He tries pulling back but John doesn’t allow it, continues plundering his mouth. Under the ever-growing haze Sherlock finds he can’t be bothered to care too much, not under the deep assaulting exploration his mouth receives, under those gorgeous broad hands gliding slowing over his skin.

John then pushes more of his body down. The lower part. Sherlock squeaks. His back instinctively arching away, except there’s nowhere to go but up and that presses more of his soft cool lower body even closer to that blazing hot, _iron-hard_ massive length. He pushes at John’s broad shoulders as if to squirm out and away but suddenly those big hands find his small hips and force him to take the feeling of that big cock branding his skin.

He pulls away from the kiss to squeal his protests. “Ah! John. John. It’s too - It’ll never. I can’t.”

“It will. You will.” John says brusquely. His answering rumble, low and deep and earthy and _powerful._ Sherlock  thinks he can smell the animal lust dripping off John through the man’s sweat. And amazingly that all helps him. Helps grounds him. Like everything John does helps control Sherlock’s hyperactive mind and fears. Slowly his squirming slows and he simply lies limp and pliant, the lovely drugs and his own love and desire and need for John swirling in his system.

John’s hands come back up and drift over Sherlock’s delicate white throat, the gunpowder burned scarred fingers pinkening the skin, traveling down to Sherlock’s exposed clavicles and staying there. Sherlock didn’t even know they were sensitive but he starts giggling when John stays there. John murmurs how pretty they are and Sherlock’s suddenly in heaven.

Leaving his upper chest the hands glide down and when they reach his nipples this time the touches are feather gentle, and yet they’re already so peaked and sore from before even these soft explorations are too much. Sherlock squirms and whimpers, mewling pleas again and again with the older man.

John ignores it all, relentlessly and firmly rubbing and teasing the little nubs until they’re dark pink, nearly red, and so hard Sherlock thinks he might scream and come if they’re exposed to one single more touch.

Only then do they leave their quarry and finally continue their maddening slow pace over his stomach and the tops of his thighs, sending Sherlock’s abdominal muscles quivering like a plucked string.

Sherlock’s brain finally calms enough to let him do the same to John and puts his own hands between them as well. He catalogs with lust how John’s hard wiry hair on his chest and stomach feels against his own.

John finally pulls away and Sherlock instinctually arches up, transport betraying his need, hating to absence the new fulfilling sensations of John’s forceful mouth and hands and body. He’s so close to coming he can barely stand it. John smiles down at him and Sherlock can’t tell what sinister thoughts lurking behind those dark depths.

John leans over again, this time the hot lips licking the soft flesh under Sherlock’s right ear, softly sucking before biting down.

It earns him a strangled scream, which increases until slowly becoming a high pitched moan. John snarls at the sound of it. "Have you any idea how much I've wanted to shove my cock in your tight little ass since the second I laid eyes on you? And your mouth. Your fucking rose pink mouth that was made to be stretched around cock."

Sherlock’s own hands now greedy themselves and travel up John’s gorgeous strong neck, higher yet until they can sift through the thick brown-grey hairs on John’s head. God, he’s always wanted to feel those soft-coarse bristles. His moans are prolonged as John’s mouth and tongue and teeth retreat and lower, trace out the same path his hands had earlier, marking every inch of pristine pale skin until they come to Sherlock’s cock, aching by this point.

John rumbles low and deep in his ears, almost like telling him a secret. "Every time you called me daddy with Rosie I imagined you called me that as I fucked your mindless."

The next few moment happen so quickly Sherlock can’t even process it all. John’s wonderful, incredible wicked mouth engulfs his cock all the way and Sherlock screams so loud he’s sure to alarm everyone in a mile radius as he comes for the first time with another person. Writhing and crying John doesn’t let go, continues sucking and grunting greedily as he keeps Sherlock helpless in his climax for what feels like eternity.

Sherlock in his haze barely registers the satisfied rumble deep within John’s chest as the man pulls back. Sherlock’s limp little body a veritable feast before him. He does, however, register when a pair of now familiar strong  hands in a single swift motion grab both his knees and pull them forward and upward.

It immediately butts that massive cock against Sherlock’s plump asscheeks.

The brunette yelps. It feels like John’s cock made of steel encasing pure lava, branding his virgin flesh. It’s unimaginable to consider what it will feel like in his soft insides. All fog cleared, he trembles and gasps...and yet there’s little true hesitation. He knows now it’s going to happen. He’s going to be sodomized and fucked by John and what would have scared him so badly before is now only a distant concern.

John growls hovering above him. Sherlock’s splayed long legs on either side, surely looking as slutty and wanton as a whore. Sherlock’s afraid he looks as blissfully slutty as he feels. Oh God. He wants John so much.

And then John growls again. This time he can nearly hear the deep rumble it’s so savage sounding.

I got it wrong, Sherlock thinks. John doesn’t love him. Doesn’t really want him. That sound. It’s full of hate. Venom.

Sherlock’s pale blue eyes search John’s dark ones until John growls again. “God, I want to devour your pretty face.”

And he does.

John folds Sherlock’s skinny frame in half and reaches his full lips again, feral and snarling like a beast, nipping and biting possessively. And when he takes  Sherlock’s mouth his motions thrum with cruel need. He thrusts his tongue inside even more firmly than that first kiss.

Searing. Claiming. An ownership, nearly malicious. Deep and rough.

A mimicry of the act Sherlock is slowly beginning to crave, and to translate that message to the soldier he keeps his mouth soft and pliant and open, giving himself over to John’s easy control.

Sherlock can only whimper and pant during those seldom seconds John allows him another breath. He might have passed out, too, he’s not sure. Not sure of anything except the sudden hit of cold air against his tiny tight pink hole as John’s hands are groping each asscheek, broad thumbs pushing in and then out, prying Sherlock open, laying bare the pretty pink little hole.

Then Sherlock feels heat.

Scorching hot and wet and burning rough tongue are laving his tiny furled entrance. Sherlock isn’t sure if the sound he makes his human but the sensation is beyond anything he’s ever known until that surprisingly strong muscle pushes _in._

And once inside Sherlock knows he’s screaming like a whore. John has him thankfully pinned or else he’s arching supple spine would be somewhere in the stratosphere he’s sure.

It continues forever until something firmer and even rougher makes an appearance seducing the rim until pushing and pushing and suddenly and a thick calloused finger is  inside. It keeps pushing further and further. Tip. One knuckle. It has Sherlock crying out, his spine arching so painfully it looks like he’s been struck by lightning, yet it impales himself further. Second knuckle. Third knuckle. All the way.

John keeps that finger pushing and petting Sherlock’s delicate pink insides. He looks down to watch as his fingers  disappears and stretches out Sherlock’s hole.

“You’re sure  a beauty, Sherlock.”

Sherlock has died. Except that can’t be right. He’s destined for hell not heaven.  And nothing could be more heavenly than how John’s face seems magnetized to the incendiary sight of his finger sinking into the third knuckle, his primal groan when Sherlock’s tight smooth insides clench around him. Minutes pass on and on as one finger becomes two becomes three becomes four. The pain and noises of genuine distress and agony seem like music to the doctor’s ears, ne never stops, never relents until those thick fingers are impaling and burning and stretching the brunette beyond anything he thought his body could ever take.

He’s harder than he’s ever been in life before. He’s quite positive he’ll die this way.

When they all pull out Sherlock keens at the loss, worse than even the day John married Mary.

John’s face is surprisingly passive and his deep voice almost flat. “I’m going to split you open like I’ve want to for _years_.”

He shifts and that battering ram cockhead pushes against Sherlock’s too small hole. He suddenly realizes how all that preparation isn’t nearly enough. His adrenalin spikes with ice-cold snaking up his spine.

“You need this, Sherlock. You need to get fucked and filled, and it’s going to be by me, by my cock. You’re going to get this cock and you’re going to tell me you want it. Say it. Now. For God’s sake,” his voice  gravel-over-stone but strangely gentle, pleading almost. “Tell me you want it or I’ll never touch you again.”

“John - John.” His mind whirs to find the right words to agree, but _are_ there any words that can adequately illustrate how much he wants to tell John yes.

“I love you.”  It isn’t even the right answer to the question. Love has nothing to do with sex, not always at least, but then maybe it _is_ the right answer because he’s rewarded with another kiss, a mixture of hard and soft, and now it’s his turn, he controls it and pushes his tongue inside John’s mouth. John who tastes dark and bitter and wonderfully _John._

Then he feels it again. The hot, hard and very substantial cock at his hole, and then press of it:  slow, insistent, relentless. It punches the air from his lungs. He throws back his head, trying to let out a wordless, soundless scream.

_Oh god oh god oh god too big too much stop stop_

It’s barely an inch inside, just the tip of the head but Sherlock feels he’s being ripped open.

His eyes roll in the back of his head and his curls bounce as his head tosses back and forth.

After an eternity, centimeter after centimeter the cockhead makes making an audible pop as it finally pries open his hole.

“Relax,” John says, holding him there making low gruff sounds. “Relax, Sherlock.” His entire body straining with not slamming in. He lets Sherlock become accustomed to the burning painful stretch.

Sherlock wide-eyed and debauched. Eventually Sherlock is able to say, “AH! God, you’re enormous. I -  I can feel you in my chest! I  can’t -”

John doesn’t even hesitate, he shoves forward.

S-H-O-V-E-S

_Shoving and shoving and shoving!_

Shoves himself inside Sherlock’s tight little body, pounding out Sherlock’s complaint in a heartbeat.

“You’ll take every inch I give you.” John snarls. He pulls back an inch and drives forward hard. This time Sherlock finds his voice and screams. The stretch is unbearable. John does it again. Sherlock is being torn apart, white hot burning, and John keeps going, keeps _fucking_ Sherlock’s ass wide and open. As tight and resisting as Sherlock’s hole is, John all huge power and devastating force, he cores his delicate pink-flesh insides, helpless and yielding to the barbaric cock as ripe fruit to a machete, splitting him open. Again and again and again and _again_.

The brutal penetration the -S-T-R-E-T-C-H-  doesn’t stop, goes on, inch by inch by inch by thick, ass-splitting inch, in in in **_IN,_ ** deeper and deeper and deeper.

It takes eons before John finally stops, as far as he’s willing to push Sherlock’s unfucked body. By that point Sherlock is hyperventilating, voice lost to screaming. He’s impaled, fuller than full, organs having rearranged themselves to make room for John’s burning hot length, stuffed beyond his body’s capacity, as if at any moment John’s savage cock is going to break through his kidneys and ribs.

He looks down and instantly regrets it. John’s just a little more than half inside.

John draws his hips back pausing for a short minute when only the head is burning and stretching the rim.

“John!” Sherlock wails. John fucks back inside. Punches Sherlock’s entire body so hard he travels half a foot up the mattress.

“I’m going to split you apart and fuck you within an inch of your life,” John snarls.

The rhythm establishes to what’s right under sadistic. Sherlock is slowly dying. He’s sure of it. He’s always known he’d die young. But he always assumed it would be due to a car he’d run past, a criminal he was chasing, too much cocaine, cancer. Never had he foreseen he’s be fucked to death.

It’s instantly deemed the best possible of ways to go.

All of a sudden John still, waits, holding completely still, with only his broad hips giving small almost unconscious thrusts.  He smiles, something like all those amazed looks he used to give Sherlock shining  in the depths of the eyes. “Oh, Sherlock,” he groans.

“Look at you. I could do this forever, you know. I’ll never get enough of this. Of you. You’re body is made for me. Perfect. Made more perfect on my cock.” He says, trailing a finger of Sherlock’s fuck-flushed face, reading Sherlock’s dazed, pained, desperate expression. “I want to keep you like this as long as you live,impaled and struggling on my cock.”

He pulls away.

“Say ‘no.’ Say it. Tell me to stop and I will.” He grunts but he’s genuine. It scares Sherlock more than anything more in his life.

Without conscious decision Sherlock keens. “John, you’re my whole world.”

“Jesus, Sherlock.” He sounds impressed. “I’ve always known you’d let me hurt you but you’d really let me do anything  to you, wouldn’t you? You’ll let me fuck you until you die from it. Savage you to death and you’d beg me to keep going.”

John sinks his teeth at the tender skin where neck becomes shoulder with a hard possessive bite, and with that the flexing muscles of John’s hairy thighs shift and bunch, and suddenly the bruising grip on Sherlock’s hips shift to his milky thighs. It’s the only warning Sherlock gets before he’s being lifted upwards, large strong hands sliding under his ass for support and cradling him against that massive, deliciously and perfectly haired chest. Instinct has Sherlock fling his long arms around John’s thick neck to keep balance. Not that he needs to as it turns out.

John holds him as easily and surely as if he was a weak kitten. Sherlock is kept impaled, writhing, crying softly, on the long hard cock that doesn’t slip out during any of the moment as John stands and walks him to the nearest wall.

Once there he takes Sherlock’s thin ankles in each hand and lays them across his broad shoulders. He presses forward, bending Sherlock’s body in two. Whatever previous ideas Sherlock had about the definition of stretch and pain and pleasure and cock and _fuck_ are all blown to smithereens when his hips are lifted and then pushed down, hard, and at the same time the broad hips thrust upward, cruelly so that the brunette is effectively _slammed_ into. Deeper this time. Deeper. Harder. Faster.

John doesn’t waste any time. He fucks up into Sherlock’s body in hard, fast _violent_ snaps, driving Sherlock’s body up the wall with every thrust only to have iron-gripping hands yank his poor abused ass back down. Sherlock feels every part of John’s cock, slams and rub and press and stabs Sherlock’s badly abused prostate. The wicked new angle stretches Sherlock worse, and better, allows for even deeper penetration, lets John drive inside him so vicious-deep it feels like he’s fucking up to his throat.

Sherlock’s helplessly yielding body has to take it all, giving John’s cruel thrust every hot pleasure it desires.

Sherlock doesn’t know anything anymore, his mind is mush, overfucked. else about anything. His eyes slam closed and he’s forced into a pain riot of helpless sensation. It grows more and more, the burning maelstrom of sensations owning him. From the molten hot cock fucking his pink insides so that heat and pain and pleasure seeps into his bloodstream, searing  up his spine until he’s _quaking._ Every nerve is jangled and raw, his ass overfucked, his body overcooked.

His scream- abused throat is still leaking little high noises, distressed plaints as the pain and pleasure swell even higher, magnifying, exponentially, with every rough thrust demolishing his poor, hopelessly fucked body, building and building as John bounces him faster and faster on his big powerfully thick dick.

His virginal body is ruined. Ruined and that’s right. That’s correct. That’s how it should have been from day one when he and John met for the first time.

He needs to come so badly. Oh God he needs to come. John sees Sherlock’s agony and drives even harder, deeper, piston like plunges making his previous rough pounds seem tender love making. Trains Sherlock on the true definition of the word _fuck._

John kneads his plush ass apart in a way possessive and hungry as much as it serves to open and expose more of Sherlock’s hole to John’s wrecking, big battering cock.

Sherlock whines out his screams now. He’s a shaking, sobbing mess capable of nothing more than a soup of pleas: ‘no more,’ ‘more more,’ ‘stop stop’ and ‘never stop' and babbles of: 'I love you' 'please' 'so much.'

_so close-so close so close so close_

Sherlock is distantly aware of John's snarls as he fucks him, his cock pistoning _in and out and in and out and in and out_  of Sherlock's ass at an inhuman speed, deep animal grunts forming words. “I’ll never stop, Sherlock, I’ll always want more. You are _mine_.”

And these words as much as the postate-battering his ass takes is what pushes him over the edge. He screams and screams, shuddering as his orgasm slices through him ten times more powerful than the first.

On another plane of existence he seems to realize John's roaring in victory as he comes, too. And then he _feels it._ The cock inside him thickening impossibly bigger, stretching his raw, overused hole even wider and blistering hot come pours into his ass, stripping his bowels deep inside, flooding him while his internal muscles helplessly clenching around the juddering length. How long the older man ejaculates Sherlock can't be sure, he just hangs limply against John's strong body, unable to keep his legs from staying on those sweat slippery shoulders.

After what feels like an eternity, the strong hands stroking his back and neck drag him away from the hard wall and bring him down to a horizontal position, and this time he's finally pressed against a soft mattress.  

John's still inside, rock hard. But Sherlock's too exhausted to care. It folds over him, overwhelming everything else. John's strong musky scent enveloping him as he drifts off to unconsciousness.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in a rush so I expect I'll be editing it. My beta is no longer in this fandom so all mistakes and errors are mine.


End file.
